


Password Protected

by bloodscout



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 00:50:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs a new password for his computer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Password Protected

Mycroft bought Sherlock a new computer, which was rather suspicious, but not an unkind gesture. Once Sherlock had done a thorough search for bugs, trackers and whatever else could have possibly prompted Mycroft to give Sherlock a gift, he had to come up with a new password. He couldn’t use his old password anymore. Once ulterior motives had been eliminated as a possibility, the computer was almost certainly a thousand quid apology for Mycroft’s most recent hack. A garden variety person would choose their pin number, birthday or middle name for their new password, but that had two main flaws. Firstly, Sherlock wasn’t a garden variety anything. Secondly, Mycroft already knew all of those things, if his most recent bank statement, the birthday card on the mantle and his birth certificate were anything to go by.

Mashing the keyboard with his hand was a fleeting possibility, but that would require memorizing the random sequence of letters and numbers. Sherlock’s mental hard drive was already quite full, and any unnecessary clutter may impede his faculties of deduction. His new password needed to be somewhat personal, for ease of recall, yet difficult enough to keep Mycroft occupied for a few months until he could come up with something better. Sherlock once caught a counterfeiter who had a woven password, which turned ‘something like this’ into ‘somltehlitskheing’. Three interwoven words then, three degrees of separation, would be satisfactory for the time being.

The first part of the password came to Sherlock an hour later, when he had resorted to patches for the problem. The familiar rush of blood to his brain caused and audible sigh, and a word surfaced above the sea of thoughts.

Nicotine.

He liked nicotine. In fact, he almost loved it. Mycroft knew his brother wasn’t a saint, and a drug would be his first guess, but Mycroft was also quite dramatic and Sherlock was hoping he would overlook something as inconspicuous and commonplace as nicotine. First degree of separation right there.

The next word came a few days later, at Scotland Yard. Lestrade had just recounted the details of an utterly enthralling murder-suicide, and Sherlock’s mind was buzzing with information. It was like a hit of cocaine, but backwards – speeding his mind up instead of slowing it down. He didn't want quiet, he didn't want alone, he wanted _brightvividbeautiful._ He was so lost in his own mind that it didn’t even register when he exclaimed ‘Oh it’s fantastic. It’s like Christmas.’

The little sound John made conveyed that he was obviously more than a little perturbed by Sherlock’s apparent excitement over a crime – he always was – and felt the need to speak.

‘I’d never have placed you have a Christmas kind of person. Isn’t it all “dull, dull, utterly hateful”?’ he asked mockingly.

Sherlock thought a moment, then replied that he liked the guessing. Yes, that was right. He was flooded with memories of nights around the Christmas tree, he and Mycroft taking turns at shaking and feeling and guessing what might be underneath that wrapping. That was his next word – guess.

So far he had NIGCEOUTSISNE, and there was only one word left, but Sherlock couldn’t think of another one to save his own mother. He mulled it over for a few hours, wondering if Mycroft knew how much time he was spending on this, and whether the wretched twat was pleased with himself. John was about to get on his computer. John typed with just his index fingers, like a little boy, and it was always amusing to watch. Sherlock’s thoughts wandered to passwords again. John’s was his favourite colour, and Sherlock considered that as an option, before realizing that he didn’t really have one. John stabbed in the letters on the keyboard, one at a time. P-U-R-P-L-E. After he hit the enter key, he looked up from over his screen. While Sherlock may have been wrong (unlikely), John’s gaze seemed to be directed at Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock looked down, too and a smile crept onto his face.

 _Interesting._ He thought. _Purple._  
‘Tea?’ the doctor asked

‘Yes, please.’ Sherlock replied, although he had certainly noticed that John already had a warm, full and perfectly chemical-free cup of tea beside him.

As John stood up, the light hit his hair fleetingly, and Sherlock saw his friend’s hair in a way he only ever saw Stradivariuses and crime scenes. He tried to imagine what it would be call if it were bottled, that mix of blond and brown. Caramel didn’t seem quite the right word, and Sherlock didn’t think warm was a legitimate colour. It was then that he realized two things. The first thought wasn’t very remarkable, but the second thought was and earth shattering, ground breaking revelation

Firstly, Sherlock realized he didn’t really mind the colour.  
Secondly, Sherlock realized he actually liked it.  
He had his last word – John’s hair.  
Or perhaps, more to the point, just _John._


End file.
